


In Medias Res (Or Dreaming on Christmas Eve)

by ofermod



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Dreams, Fantasizing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofermod/pseuds/ofermod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the case with our dreams usually is, the fantasy is almost invariably strange, improbable, and exaggerated. And, as the case with dreams usually is – John found himself in a situation he didn’t remember getting himself into, all in medias res, without a clue to why and how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Medias Res (Or Dreaming on Christmas Eve)

**Author's Note:**

> A short Johnlock Christmas one-shot :)  
> This fic is my writing debut. Also, I'm not a native speaker of English so apologies for any mistakes and/or bad grammar.  
> Special thanks to Zosia (dr-ost) and Kasia (my-dearest-sixsmith/missMHO) for first reads and kind words.  
> Enjoy :)

The train is nothing special. Quite ordinary, in fact. As though you could expect anything out of the ordinary from a second class carriage. The passengers are as dull as the journey itself: John can’t help but grin at the thought of what Sherlock would have already uncovered about these grey people scattered around the carriage. Two seats away: a fat man sprawled on two seats, stuffing himself with a mars bar (second one, judging by one more wrapping on his lap). Divorced? Having an affair? No sign of a ring. Well, no wonder: would there be a size for those sausage fingers? No, no, enough, John Watson – you leave the deducing bit to the more capable consulting detective. The truth is, you haven’t got a bloody clue either about the fat bloke or other passengers. There’s this woman with a baby and her mother (in all likelihood). Their purpose and their life stories are, to put it bluntly, as obscure to you as the meaning of life, the universe, and everything: even if you see what it is, you can’t make out a sodding reason why. Pity, actually that those more capable are left alone in the flat for Christmas. Even 221B can get a bit eerie and daunting without John pacing the floor in agitation because of a gruesome experiment on the kitchen table, muttering swearwords under his breath. And then there’s Sherlock – sitting in his armchair, the blue dressing gown draped around his slender arms: alone and bored. Will probably be playing the violin to annoy the neighbours in the middle of the night. Christmas carols: a scratching version.

Wait—are you feeling homesick, John? Are you missing your flatmate? Sherlock certainly seems to be missing you in his own Sherlockian way.  _I bet he hasn’t noticed I’m away and keeps talking as if I was there_ , John muses. Oh, hell, no- twenty texts from the detective and the train hasn’t even left the station. That means he has noticed at least. Really: Sherlock could stop being a bloody nuisance and spamming his inbox with ridiculous texts like: “Are the eggs edible?”, “I used up all milk” (John doesn’t want to know what for the milk was  _used up_ ), and “Molly refused to let me into the morgue tomorrow”. Of course, you twat, it’s Christmas Day tomorrow. Or maybe you’ve deleted Christmas, I wouldn’t be surprised.  _No, enough of this, John Watson_  –  _if you can’t amuse yourself with deductions, don’t start thinking about Sherlock._  Because  _you wouldn’t know where to stop_ , said an almost inaudible voice from the back of John’s head.

Christmas at Harry’s wasn’t too much of an appealing prospect. John couldn’t decide whether he preferred a bored Sherlock over the holidays or a boring two days with his irritable sister, probably struggling to stay on the wagon. Provided she hasn’t already fallen off and the Christmas dinner will be generously sprinkled with wine.

 _If you don’t have a better way to amuse yourself, Watson, you’d better take a nap_. Sleep is after all, one of the best cures for boredom.

And thus John fell into the depths of sleep in the usual manner: slowly, then all at once. Sleeping on trains isn’t even remotely as comfortable as the bliss of one’s own bed and the arms of Morpheus don’t hold you too tightly. John dangled on the verge of sleep and wakefulness, the sounds from the carriage mingling with his warm darkness of the near-sleep. It was as if he knew the dream was not full, as if he was conscious of the reality outside of his head and at the same time buried deep under the blanket of a dream. When the doctor was falling into the dark pool of unconsciousness, his thoughts were, almost invariably, running in the direction of Sherlock. Last conscious thoughts crept into his sleep as he silently left the shaking carriage and the passengers to themselves.

He dreamt of Sherlock. Obviously.

As the case with our dreams usually is, the fantasy is almost invariably strange, improbable, and exaggerated. And, as the case with dreams usually is – John found himself in a situation he didn’t remember getting himself into, all  _in medias res_ , without a clue to why and how.

There he was—pinning someone to a wall. The wall was familiar, in fact, very familiar. Oh! The  _very_ wall of 221B. Between the entrance door and the corridor to Sherlock’s bedroom. He was, let’s face it: pinning down to the wall of 221B not just  _a someone_. Certainly not one of his girlfriends. That someone was very male, lean, angular, and with a mop of dark curls. Sherlock Holmes. It was Sherlock  _bloody_ Holmes and John was kissing him as if there was no tomorrow. A tiny fraction of John’s mind knew it was not real but it wasn’t enough to disrupt the fantasy. He was on the verge of here and now but at the same time completely oblivious and lost to the world.

His fingers, hungry and quick, sliding against the sharp cheekbone and jaw line, proceeded to the milky white neck and collarbones.  _Oh god the collarbones_ , ideally symmetrical and sharp yet fragile, and the sound Sherlock made when John’s fingers touched the smooth skin almost made the doctor whimper. Sherlock’s torso, all of a sudden devoid of the shirt (the logic of dreams is deliciously inexplicable), revealed itself in all its pale glory and John couldn’t help but plant soft feathery kisses onto the collarbones and chest and nibble on the pink nipples,  _oh bloody hell these nipples_. His hands went on exploring, gently and steadily. The doctor’s calloused fingers almost sparked electricity from the touch with the silky skin on Sherlock’s back. The detective writhed and moaned with pleasure against the wall.

The fantasy was so  _real_ , the intensity of sounds and images mingled with the sensations of the flesh – they were as tangible as the air around: certainly there but almost as if not there at all.

As John slowly went down onto his knees, sliding his tongue over the detective’s skin, he looked up at the pair of grey-green eyes. Beneath the long eyelashes there was something exceptional and beautiful, singular and compelling. Something vulnerable and vacant as if the dilated pupils were just circular entrances into a sea of lust and surrender and something more than unspoken words. The half-opened pinkish lips were whispering:  _yours, John, yours, John._ These two words only, like a mantra, repeated so many times that they mingled into an incoherent blabber of lust and pleasure.

These were the eyes that no one gets to see. Not like  _this._ The world could see them filled to the brims with cold sarcasm and ice-sharp derision. Contempt – yes: contempt galore. But like this, stripped of the defensive wall of stony distance – they were just  _beautiful_  and mesmerising. The view made John’s pulse increase even more, as if that was possible, and he felt all the blood rush into his erection, now persistently bulging in his trousers. He felt his insides burn with lust and desire, his mouth watered. Lightly brushing the waistband of Sherlock boxers, he took it between his teeth and tugged downwards. John certainly knew what he was doing, it was  _his_ dream after all. Sherlock was now naked, except for his boxers. Was he dressed a moment ago? All is fair in dreams and war, disappearing clothes being no exception.

The decided yet very gentle movement freed Sherlock’s cock, hard and throbbing from anticipation. Both men gasped and John took Sherlock’s length in his hands, teasing it with a slow and firm stroke. His heart racing, John tasted the milky drop that gathered on the tip, wrenching a guttural moan from Sherlock that turned into a purr when he took the head into his mouth. He acted on instinct, licking and sucking at a leisurely pace that could have made the moment last an  _eternity_. The musky smell and salty taste of Sherlock overwhelmed all John’s senses and the ever-present reminder of this being a dream and yet not a dream--- was reduced to almost nothing. So real, so overwhelming and so sensual.

Feeling Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, he looked up once again, now to find a sight both angelic and devilish at the same time. Head turned back, hands gripping the wall, his knuckles white from clutching at it. And the expression on that face, that gorgeous face—a view of a complete surrender and trust and want, eyes closed and mouth opened in silent moaning. Now there was something more than mere desire building up in John’s guts, it was a want to  _know all of Sherlock_. John started moving more decidedly, his mouth sliding on the shaft and sucking on the glans as if he wanted to swallow the life out of Sherlock.  _Mine and no one else’s,_ whispered John’s mind. He felt a hand on the crown of his head, gently massaging circles in the fair tufts of John’s short hair. He cupped Sherlock’s balls, teasing and inducing half-silenced whimpers from the detective.

They were lost in the sensations of the moment, in a split-second everything froze and seemed silent when Sherlock arched and in anticipation of the impeding orgasm started to shake. John steadied him against the wall putting his hands on Sherlock’s hips and quickened the pace, his licks and sucks frantic. And before John knew, there were warm waves of semen in his mouth and Sherlock was shouting now, shouting for dear life---

‘John!’, a voiced wrenched John from the depths of a dream, ‘Coo-eee!’. He woke up with a start, the reality descending onto him all at once like a tsunami: vision, sound, and smell from the train carriage hit him without mercy. Through the blurry fog before his eyes, John struggled to see no one else but dear Mrs Hudson. She was observing him a little worriedly.

‘I hate to wake you up,’ she went on, ‘but you were apparently having a nightmare and we’re practically there. You’re going to your sister’s? I’m visiting an old friend for Christmas. How come you didn’t tell me you were going away? I was on my way to have a cuppa and a sandwich when I spotted you, poor thing. Something really intense it must have been, hasn’t it?’

She carried on chattering and John felt a blush crawling up his face.  _Intense, well, that’s rather an understatement,_ John thought to himself, trying to regain composure.

‘It was a bit of a last-minute decision, Mrs Hudson. I must have forgotten in the rush of packing, you know-’ he finally stuttered out but there was a buzz of a text message. He finished mid-sentence and his mouth fell open.

“Hope you’re not on your way yet, change of plans: going to stay at Clara’s. Still on the wagon btw. Merry Christmas, xoxo” read the message from Harry. John didn’t know whether he should throw the bloody phone out the window in anger or burst out laughing with joy.

‘Nevermind, Mrs Hudson, there seems to have been a change of plans anyway. Looks like I need to catch a train home now,’ and he left Mrs Hudson gaping at him in bewilderment. Actually, sod the time wasted on the train, he was very much looking forward to Christmas in 221B, especially after his phone buzzed for the second time:

 

“Miss you. –SH”

_fin_


End file.
